


Letters vs. Numbers

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Nogitsune, PTSD, Perishable, breaks from canon, dark!stiles, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm here for a gun."<br/>--<br/>One million dollars for a faceless stranger's life. With his dad in the hospital and bills stacking ever higher against them, Stiles can't help wondering if it's not a fair price to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters vs. Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> My Sterek Writers' group on Tumblr is doing a season 4 rewrite event - we're each assigned an episode at random to play with and "Sterekify" however we want. :) Here's my contribution.
> 
> *Title from the band, because I listened to their song "My Turn to Evil" about 10 times while writing this.

_“We’re supposed to take care of each other.”_

.-

He waits until his dad drifts into a morphine-induced slumber before going to find the nurse’s station and discuss the bills: the latest in a crush of greedy hands that are dragging them even deeper into debt. It’s his fault, no matter what his dad tries to tell him. No matter that his dad had been shot by another cop, that _that_ cop had been going after Parrish. It’s his fault his dad’s involved in any of these nightmares to begin with, his fault for Eichen house. His fault for every horrible thing that had happened back in November.

It’s his mess; he’ll clean it up.

He’ll find a way to fix this.

.-

The printer won’t shut up – beeping, distracting, _incessant_ noises making it impossible to focus. Lydia’s sitting at the computer, getting more frustrated by the second, and Stiles can’t think of anything better than “it must be about you, she wanted _you_ to figure it out.”

Never mind that it doesn’t fit pattern. Never mind the seriously unnerving implication that if it _does_ fit pattern, if Lydia’s name somehow works itself into the cipher, wouldn’t that mean she’s predicting her own death?

Aiden, Allison.

Derek.

He can’t think about that. There are too many things going wrong already. His dad’s in the hospital. They’re going to lose the house. Almost everyone he cares about is on a supernatural hit list; Derek’s pretty much destined to die if Lydia’s super senses can be believed. And the stupid printer _won’t shut up._

He feeds in some paper and it finally seems happy. They go back to brainstorming.

And five minutes later they’ve figured out the cipher key, and the floor’s covered with printed pages of a fresh hit list.

Stiles’ eyes catch for too long on the line of faceless names and numbers. And at the back of his mind, he starts to wonder.

.-

There are evil, monstrous supernatural creatures out there. No doubt about it. There are things like the berserkers, like _Peter._ Like that freaky mouthless guy – a killer by trade – or the Wendigo family with their meat locker full of corpses.

…Things like the Nogitsune.

There are creatures out there that the world would be better without. People that Stiles will probably end up fighting anyway, someday, to keep the town safe.

So really, would it be so bad if he got paid for taking care of a problem? If he actually got something back for all the hell he’d had to put his dad through?

There _are_ people who deserve it.

And his dad deserves so much better.

Copies of each hit list sit in his pocket, heavy.

.-

He’s thinking about it without thinking about it. Dragging the pages out, folding and unfolding, scanning over the names, trying to recognize any of them, trying not to.

Peter’s not on any of the lists. That would be too fucking easy.

(…It’s kind of convenient too, isn’t it?)

But the trail leads them to Eichen house, and they go.

.-

Meredith’s at the station. ( _Alive_ at the station. Whatever that means.) His dad’s close to getting discharged from the hospital. Scott’s at his house, sleeping off a killer headache left behind by some decidedly not wolf-friendly music.

And Stiles is sitting in his darkened dining room, a bottle of whiskey open next to a stack of bills, staring down at a worn and worried paper.

Tom Hill. One million dollars for Tom Hill.

His hand, shaking, grabs the bottle to take a steadying swig. His wrist, bruised and raw, burns as the edge of his sleeve brushes across it.

 _One million dollars_ for Tom Hill.

Whoever the hell Tom Hill is.

…And honestly, would it even matter if he did?

.-

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen Derek look startled before. Not really. His enhanced senses and years of experience have always given him an edge on being the creeper and not the creepee in most situations. But now he stands there in the doorway to his loft – Stiles’ hand still raised from knocking – with wide eyes scanning down fast before darting back up to Stiles’ eyes. And he looks _decidedly_ startled.

“Stiles, what—“ But Stiles is already pushing his way inside, taking another swig from the bottle (shit, he’d been holding that the whole drive over, hadn’t he?) and pulling a stack of papers clumsily from his pocket, tossing them out across the floor.

Past due. Past due.

Red red _red_.

The words pull at him and he forces his gaze back up, jaw clenching.

Derek’s just standing there, the door hanging open behind him, the puzzled eyes and pursed lips making Stiles’ fight a snort. Big Bad Wolf, flummoxed by a few bills.

“What are you—”

“Who the hell even _is_ Tom Hill, anyway?”

Stiles realizes, distantly, that this isn’t exactly how you start a conversation, but honestly he couldn’t care less. Not like Derek’s ever been a conversational master, anyway. He probably won’t even notice.

Derek, meanwhile, is going tenser by the second, his eyes scanning across the notices on the floor, and then back to the hall like he’s expecting Tom Hill to be standing there waiting with an explanation.

“I don’t know. Who—”

“He’s _one million fucking dollars_ , is what he is. And it’s just… it’s just sitting there, waiting for someone to take it. And everyone’s doing it, right? Even cops. Everyone’s…” He breaks off with a humorless laugh. The smooth glass feels too warm in his hand. “…So why shouldn’t I? They’re all coming after us, they’re all… chasing us down and tying us up and _attacking my family_ , Derek. So why shouldn’t I get something back for it?”

He feels his eyes going narrow as the rant picks up, words hissing out in snaps and bites. His shoulders straighten out, chin lifting as he waits for Derek’s inevitable argument. Waits for him to get in his face, shove him against a wall, give him something he can push against.

The door slides shut and Derek steps forward, moving slowly, infinitely careful.

“Why are you here, Stiles?”

A small laugh bubbles up in his chest. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with it, and his next words come out thick with repressed sound.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here for you. Couldn’t be here for you even if I wanted to, right? You’re off the list now. Just… poof, off the list. Like you’re dead already. Like you never existed.”

Derek’s brows furrow. (He’s got _good_ brows for furrowing. Thick and dark over strangely soft eyes.) This is obviously news to him.

But that isn’t the point. That’s not what Stiles is here.

“I need a gun. A good gun.” An untraceable gun; not one of his dad’s. Nothing that can lead back to them and cause his dad even more grief. “I know you’ve been hanging out with Braeden and… and she’s probably got tons of assassin shit, right? Sniper rifles and assault rifles, or…” _A long blade digging into his prey’s gut. Twisting, tearing flesh._ He shudders, refocuses. “Because I need to… I’m crawling out of my skin here, Derek. And this isn’t…”

_Tied down, Lydia shaking behind him. The syringe at her throat. His dad at the hospital, at the dining room table, staring over the bills. A bottle of whiskey in his…_

_Fuck._ Stiles moves to take another swig, finds the bottle jerked to a stop inches from his mouth. He scowls down at it, sees Derek’s hand gripping it and holding it still.

“I think that’s enough.”

Sickness twists in his gut, and he jerks back hard. The whiskey sloshes but doesn’t come any closer.

“Stiles—”

“You don’t get to _think_ for me.” He tugs again, snarling as it doesn’t come. He lashes out mindlessly with his free hand and Derek… _crumples_. Releases the bottle so fast Stiles drops it, and it shatters, amber liquid splashing out and staining the scattered notices.

Stiles’ attention is locked on Derek.

“What the hell.” Derek’s clutching a protective hand over his side, slowly coming out of a grimace. “Derek, you…”

“That’s not important right now.”

And he’s right; it’s not. Stiles can’t let it be. But Derek focuses in on the wrong thing too, eyes going to Stiles’ arm. The sleeve had ridden up during the struggle for the bottle, and Derek is going soft and concerned again despite the pain lingering in his eyes.

“Stiles, that… what happened to you tonight?”

_Fighting against the bonds._

_“Don’t listen to it. Lydia!”_

“That’s not important right now,” he echoes and goes for a smirk. It escapes as a shadow of a feeling. Derek straightens slowly, wincing, and tries to move back toward him, and he falls back a step, staying out of reach. “I need a gun.”

Derek’s eyes are locked on the bruises, the torn skin.

“Did… Tom Hill do that?”

He lifts a hand, so goddamn slow, like he’s confronting something wild, untamable. Chaotic.

Stiles smirks again, dry and bitter, and slides again out of reach.

“Tom Hill’s _no one_ , Derek.” Not pack, not family. Just a name and a whole lot of cash behind it.

Derek’s hand drops.

“So you’re just going to kill him.”

The way Derek says it grates on him – so fucking dismissive, like he can’t even seriously imagine it. Can’t imagine Stiles being strong enough to do it.

But he doesn’t know about the chaos roiling deep inside, black and cold and strangely steadying.

Control. He needs control, and he finds it in the shadows and echoes of memory. His shoulders are going back again, fidgeting hands settling as he matches Derek’s gaze.

“You know what? Yes. I’m going to kill some faceless stranger.” There, he’s finally said it. It was strangely easy, slipping off his tongue. “To help my family. To do what I have to do.”

_Tied up at Eichen house, waiting for death. Wrenching against the bonds. Powerless._

This Tom Hill is probably some kind of evil, person-eating shit anyway. And even if he’s not, he’s not Stiles’ pack.

Derek stares until Stiles starts to itch again, deep down inside in a place he can’t reach. He doesn’t move though, doesn’t give ground, and slowly something in Derek’s gaze seems to shift. Goes from concerned to edgy, then slides to careful blankness.

Stiles wonders, idly, what he’s seeing when he looks at Stiles right now. What Stiles would see if he looked in a mirror.

Golden-green eyes slide to the floor, scan over the whiskey-stained notices. Slowly, hesitantly:

“I could pay them for you.”

_What?_

Stiles’ hand clenches on the open air. Derek’s gaze goes to him, settles somewhere around his collar.

“You don’t _have_ any money, Derek. All your _millions_ you never bothered to fucking mention while you were living in train yards, all that’s been snatched up by some psycho to dole out as door prizes to Beacon Hills’ Best Killers, 2012.”

Which, granted, means the money Stiles gets for this will technically be Derek’s too. But hell, he’ll have _earned_ it. No one will be able to say differently.

“That’s Peter’s money, not mine.” Derek says it quietly, simply, no heat behind the words. Stiles had come here expecting an argument; Derek had always known how to give him a good argument. All this softness, this concern, it’s screwing with his head, slowing him down. It’s not what he needs, and he can’t think about it right now.

“I have my own money,” he continues, smooth and easy, like it’s nothing. “I’ll pay off whatever you need.”

Stiles’ focus snaps, and all at once he’s is in Derek’s space, pushing against him, hand lashing toward that spot that had made Derek crumple a minute ago. But Derek catches his arm before he gets there. Holds him still as Stiles’ teeth grit and he writhes against the grip.

_Fighting hopelessly, tied down and waiting for death._

“I don’t need a fucking white knight, Derek. I don’t need your charity, I don’t need to be rescued.”

_His body moving against his will, smiling so innocent as the sword twisted in Scott’s gut. Powerful and in control and completely out of control at the same time._

He steadies again, his breath hissing out slowly.

“I just… I just need a gun.”

Something like resignation flickers in Derek’s eyes. Something like understanding.

“I get it,” he breathes, and Stiles thinks maybe he actually does. Who else could understand what it’s like to have your world spiral completely out of control? To be responsible for so many horrors, and such a victim of them at the same time?

Derek’s holding both of his arms, thumbs burning and soothing over the battered wrists. Stiles almost wants to tug against that grip, make them sting again. He almost wants to sink down against Derek’s chest and let the world disappear for a few precious seconds.

His eyes almost fall to Derek’s mouth, and he blinks that thought away fast.

He’s not a damsel. He _can’t_ be a fucking damsel.

His words slide out too desperate, too needy:

“Then let me do this.”

Derek’s eyes slide away and back, and there’s a hint of the Derek Stiles had been expecting: restless, impulsive. _Angry_. He waits for those eyes to flash blue (or even yellow) with all that roiling emotion, and feels strangely lost again when they don’t.

But then he gives a little, tight nod, drops his hold on Stiles’ wrists and steps away.

“Ok.”

Stiles doesn’t move, attention locked on the tension in Derek’s shoulders, the way his shifting feet crunch over a shard of glass from the dropped bottle.

“‘Ok’?”

“Guns on the table. Take what you want, none of them can be traced.”

He nods toward the weapons, still not quite meeting Stiles’ eyes. Stiles’ gaze follows to the small arsenal before sliding back.

“Seriously. You’re not gonna try to stop me?”

Finally Derek looks back – frustration, misery, understanding (still so goddamn understanding).

“Is that why you came here? So I’d stop you?”

They hold gazes for a long moment, challenging, before Stiles hisses out sharply and turns, making for the table.

There are all sorts of weapons there. Shotguns, handguns, a deadly looking sniper with scope attachment. Stiles shivers as he trails his fingers across the narrow, deadly barrel.

Whatever the hell Tom Hill is, Stiles knows he doesn’t want to get in close enough for him to fight back. He lifts the weapon slowly, another thrill running through him.

Powerful. For the first time in months, with this in his hands, he feels like he finally has control.

“Ammo?”

There’s a slow breath from behind him.

“She keeps them loaded. No point being armed for attacks if you’re going to get caught with empty chambers in an ambush.”

Stiles nods, checks the weapon just to be sure. Not that he doesn’t trust Derek… except he sort of doesn’t trust Derek. He’s still not really sure what his motivations are here: the reluctance and the understanding all swirling around in his stance.

Stiles shouldn’t have come here. Things had been clear at the house. He doesn’t need his motivations getting swirly too.

He finds the box of ammo and shoves half a dozen rounds in his pocket, then picks up a handgun and checks that as well.

“Seems like you know what you’re doing.”

Stiles doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see those eyes again.

“For a long time, pretty much all my family bonding time was at the shooting range.”

_A too silent house. Two grieving men, not sure how to connect anymore, with a piece missing between them._

“Shooting a person’s a lot different than shooting a target.”

The handgun slides into his waistband. Teeth grit, then loosen.

“Think I don’t know that? Think I can’t _handle_ it?” The rifle will be harder to hide. Luckily, the whole point of it is not getting close enough to be spotted. He pulls the strap over his shoulder, spins back to scowl at Derek’s flinching face. “I’m not weak, Derek. I might be human, and small and skinny, and maybe I get knocked on my ass more than you guys, but that doesn’t _mean_ —“

“I don’t think being human makes you weak.”

There’s something in the way Derek says it that makes Stiles pause, makes him shift again, makes his brain try to refocus. The pain in Derek’s side, the eyes that don’t shift. The way his feet scrape too loud, almost clumsy, over the broken glass.

But that’s not important now. _Derek’s_ not important now. Stiles scoffs.

“Whatever, ok? Just… thanks for the guns. Or thank Braeden. I’ll bring them back after.”

He’s stalking toward the door in clipped steps when Derek catches up and twists him by the shoulder. He braces finally ( _finally_ ) for an argument, but then Derek’s mouth is on him.

A hot, hungry need ripples through him, knocking memory and money troubles and sheer shock away. The whole world reduced to a crush of lips and the needy sound tearing from one (both?) of their throats.

The rifle hits the ground as Stiles surges into Derek. Lips part, fast and gasping and hungry, Stiles’ hands fisting in Derek’s hair as he leads the kiss and Derek _lets_ him, lets himself be turned and pressed back against the door. Lets Stiles’ tongue trace his teeth and lick in deeper.

A dark echo in his chest screams _control_ and Stiles’ hands are on Derek’s wrists, clenching hard, pushing them back against the heavy door. Derek whines, but it’s a good sound, a _wanting_ , like he’s loving the chance to surrender his power as much as Stiles needs to take it. He puts up a fight for it, twists against Stiles’ hold, but Stiles keeps him pinned without much effort (and honestly, what the hell? But he can’t think about that now. He has _better_ things to think about).

One knee slides between Derek’s and he bucks up into the friction. Stiles’ lips slide from his gasping mouth, biting along his slowly flushing jaw, savoring the burn of stubble and nosing at his neck. Derek groans, hand going the second it’s freed to brace at Stiles’ nape. He arches his neck, opening up to Stiles. Begging. No… _submitting._

It’s good. It’s so fucking _thrilling_ and he’s never wanted anything the way he wants this. Wants Derek coming apart against him. _Because_ of him.

Fast and dirty kissing graduates to a fast and dirty handjob. Derek’s hands are smoothing along Stiles’ waist, Stiles’ own already fumbling with the button of Derek’s jeans, sliding in.

And _fuck,_ Derek groans at the first touch, rocking up into his hand, eyes squeezed shut and mouth gasping wide. And then he’s scrambling for Stiles too, restless and clumsy in a way Stiles has never seen him.

It’s amazing to see him desperate like this, scrambling, but it’s not right, it’s not what Stiles needs right now.

He needs control.

So he bats Derek’s hand away, soothing a frustrated sound with a slow kiss that Derek comes out from sounding lust-drunk and dizzy.

“Stiles, let me…”

“ _Shut up._ ”

And then he’s gripping Derek in one hand, bracing his hip in the other and jerking him slowly, working until he finds the rhythm that makes Derek’s eyes roll back, his hands clenching and catching at the door behind him.

When he comes it’s the single most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen: the small whimper, the bob of his throat as he swallows wetly and forces his eyes back open: blown out dark and too much pupil, just a sliver of green and gold at the edge. His hair a wreck from Stiles’ tugging hands.

Bedhead, Stiles thinks with an almost-fond smile. Without the bed.

For too long after they just stand there, staring. Derek’s eyes searching Stiles’ for something unknowable, Stiles basking in the high of what he’d done, that he’d done _that._ To Derek.

Until Derek lets out a slow breath, straightening up and pressing his forehead slowly to Stiles’. They’re really the same height. Somehow Derek’s always seemed so much larger.

A hand clasps his nape, playing gently with the short hairs there.

“It wouldn’t have been charity.”

It comes out low and gruff, reaching deep inside Stiles and twisting like a blade. His small smile doesn’t waver.

“I don’t need a white knight,” he repeats evenly. Derek’s lips start to thin out and Stiles catches them again, teeth dragging at the bottom one until the frustration in Derek’s eyes bleeds back to want. “Rain check on the rest of this. If you still want me after.”

For a second it looks like Derek’s going to spew out “I want you always” or some other, painfully corny line that will leave Stiles wanting and wincing at all at once. Instead he lifts a hand to Stiles’ cheek, trails a thumb down it slowly as he searches his eyes.

“You’re a better person than this.”

Stiles thinks his eyes, maybe, are confessing something anyway. He tears his own away, tugs gently out of Derek’s touch.

Hunter or victim, in control or being controlled?

…His dad’s counting on him. How much does “good” really matter in the end?

“I guess we’ll see when I get there.”

And he scoops up the rifle, drags the door open, and ducks past Derek into the shrouded night.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
